The Words
by Jambammer
Summary: Sherlock has John's blood on his hands. Meant to go before Left Unspoken.


With a tiny groan escaping his lips, Sherlock's eyes beg him not to open them. For the moment, he grants their request and processes his other senses.

Sounds. It's quiet, with the exception of the dreadful high pitched ringing that floods his ears, but he suspects this is from the event that happened moments ago. Has it been moments? Or had he been knocked unconscious?

He sniffs. No, it has only been mere minutes. The burning smell of the explosive still hangs strongly in the air, masking the smell of chlorine. The smell of dusk lingers too, in his nose and in his mouth.

Taste. Blood. He grimaces; blood has such an odd taste. He makes a note to himself to spit it out once he can bring himself to move.

Touch. He's lying on his back against the cool tiles of the floor surrounding the pool. Obviously there hadn't been as much explosive as he'd originally thought. He'd only been thrown backwards a few feet. Liquid; his stomach felt wet and warm. Touching it gingerly and causing a slight hiss left his mouth – ah yes, _there _was the pain – he rubbed the liquid between his fingers. It was blood.

As if opening a floodgate, the pain now radiated through his entire body, shooting through his veins like a terrible fire. It hurt a great deal. Lovely; that meant it was serious. Mycroft would likely have him in the hospital for a month at the very least.

Another sound suddenly met his ears; a cry of pain, and a bit of panic.

It was John's voice.

His eyes shot open. John!

Blinking rapidly to focus his eyes, he managed to make out John's form a few feet away. Shaking; John was shaking. Or was that just his eyes?

He shuts his eyes tightly.

Opening them again, he sees John shaking – he had seen right – and trying to keep from panicking. Sherlock's eyes darted to the doctor's chest; he may not have been a medical professional, but he knew that the object impaled in John was close to the man's heart.

"John," the name comes out as a hoarse cry as he springs to his feet. It doesn't occur to him that he's wounded too, and standing so quickly isn't the best idea he's ever had. He stumbles and falls to his knees, but he makes it to John's side.

John's hands are scarlet from trying to assess his situation. Involuntary tears have filled his eyes and he's breathing deeply, trying to get himself under control. Once a soldier, always a soldier, Sherlock thinks to himself, studying the wound. John's going to fight to keep a brave face right until...

No, that wouldn't happen. Sherlock banishes the thought from his mind.

He bites his lip; the wound is bad. Very bad. There's blood around it, around John. So much blood. John's blood. He curses the weapon; a piece of metal, he observes, from near the explosion. He can't say exactly what it's from, his head's too fuzzy, but it's jagged, and it's done damage.

"Sherlock," John warns, forcing himself to speak, "don't touch it."

Under normal circumstances, Sherlock would have snapped back with 'I'm not a child!' but this is hardly a normal circumstance. Instead, he merely looks back helplessly, a strange childlike terror in his usually frozen eyes.

"It's bad," John finally says with a grimace. "It's bad, Sherlock."

"Stop talking," Sherlock orders, his mind racing. He fumbles through his pocket for his phone. To his dismay, it hadn't survived the force of the blast and doesn't turn on. He swears loudly, throwing it away. "Where's your phone?" He demands, an edge of hysteria creeping into his voice.

John shakes his head. "Mori...Moriarty took it."

Moriarty! Sherlock raises his head and looks around quickly. He couldn't have survived the explosion; the bomb had been at his feet. John raises his own head, but catches sight of Sherlock's once white shirt, now a deep crimson in the center. "Good god, Sherlock, you're hurt."

"What? Hmm? No," The words come out quickly as if one. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not," John grunts insistently, trying to examine it better. "Try... try to stop the bleeding until help..." he gasps, and Sherlock winces himself from the sight of John's pain. "There's no sense... us both dying."

"Shut up," Sherlock says darkly. "You're not going to die. Don't be an idiot." His hands quake, but he desperately presses against John's wound, attempting to stop the bleeding. John cried out loudly, and Sherlock shook even more.

This was all his fault. He just had to play Moriarty's sick game, didn't he? All because he was _bored._ John had been right; lives were at stake, actual human lives... he hadn't cared until this moment. Now, John was lying in a pool of his own blood, and his blood was on Sherlock's hands.

Literally. Sherlock raises one hand and has to fight the overwhelming nausea building in his stomach.

Instead, tears rush to his eyes. John's dying.

And it's _his bloody fault._

"Sherlock," John says quietly, and the man leaning over him looks back. "I... I'll try to think of something clever for my last words."

Sherlock doesn't answer. He doesn't want to listen. Something within his mind just can't accept that this is happening. John's become part of his routine, a fact within his life, a fact that wasn't meant to be altered or removed.

"Sherlock," John tries to bring him out of his silence. He reaches up to grab the man's shoulder. "This isn't... your fault. Sherlock... do you hear me?" Sherlock takes the hand and holds it within his own. It's warm and steady, unlike his. "This is not your fault. Moriarty is the twisted bastard. Not you."

John relaxes, looking up at nothing. A slight whimper in the back of his throat, Sherlock presses John's hand against his forehead. He can feel a pulse beating against his skin; John's still there, still real.

Tears drop down his face. Oh god, why hadn't he known when to _stop?_

"Harry's a bloody fool," John murmurs, and Sherlock looks up. "Walking out on Clara..."

"John?" Sherlock asks in a small voice.

"Clara was the best thing to happen to her," his head turns to the side, and still he stares at nothing. "And Sherlock..."

"John," Sherlock says louder, lifting the man's shoulders and trying to get his attention. "John, I'm right here."

"Sherlock is the most... arrogant... but he's brilliant..." John mutters. Sherlock shakes his head. No.

"John, please," he pleads, pulling the man up to his lap. He's helpless. He's Sherlock Holmes, and he's been reduced to a quivering, weeping mess, pleading with a dying man while rocking him back and forth.

"I... admired... but... lives at stake..." John's voice grows quieter, and Sherlock watches with horror and grief as the loyal eyes close. "Harry... never got on with her y'know... Mum..."

Suddenly, he's still in the detective's arms. Sherlock cradles him close, rocking gently from side to side. He sees his hand; bright red, stained with John's blood. Somehow, he can't look away, and it holds his attention long after the distant wailing of sirens finds them.


End file.
